Barnaby the Wanderer

Chapter 25: This Fish is Overcooked

They sat again in the necromancer's feast hall. Not a fever-dream masquerade of ghostly dancers, nor yet the cold dark chamber they'd left.

Now a modest fire crackled in the hearth, doing its best not to smoke. A few candles flickered close by the guests, surrendering the rest of the hall to shadow. No mad dancers twirled, no bright lights glowed, no eerie orchestra piped and strummed.

The plates before Barnaby and Bodkin held bread and venison, not the delights of princes. Within the tarnished silver cups: mere wine mixed with rainwater.

"Where's the salt?" asked Bodkin.

"I don't have it," said Barnaby.

"Well, there was a silver salt pot here. Where's it wandered?"

"Into your pocket, like enough," said Night-Creep.

"Not me," insisted Bodkin.

"I promised a real feast," sighed Pentateuch, leaning back in his great chair. "But that dratted rat made hay of my scrolls and rings, wands and summoning ingredients. It shall take poor Sexton days to set things right."

Barnaby felt famished. Yet despite the food before him, he could not turn his mind from the dancing rat, her shy recitation, her dying glance. He watched Bodkin devouring his meal untroubled. Was that a boy's quick adaptability, or old man's wisdom?

Night-Creep sat upon the table, nibbling at a river trout. Nothing of baby mermaid, thankfully. The necromancer himself sat before a plate of black bread, a crystal cup of dark liquid. Wine, perhaps. If so, it failed to yield any least sparkle. Pentateuch stared into its depths, shaking his head.

Barnaby wondered if the creature recalled the dancer; or merely regretted the meager meal he could offer.

"Enough is as good as a feast," declared Barnaby. One of Da's favorite sayings. The cat looked up, giving a warning eye in reminder of silence.

"Not so," argued Bodkin. "Any beggar can fill his belly with bread. But there are delights served the rich that would astonish the venerable Epicurus himself."

"Wisely said," declared Pentateuch. "Entirely too wise. You are very a strange child."

"It makes a long story," admitted Bodkin.

"We'll hear it later," said the necromancer. "Or not." He stood, lifting crystal cup, readying grand words. Then considered the shadowed hall, the meagre food, and growled. "Not only salt, We lack music." He turned towards the dark, gave order.

"Play, little harp."

The guests waited, puzzling. But from out the shadows came the faint thrum and hum of strings plucked in soft melody. On the balcony railing perched a harp, as bird upon branch. This instrument now shone with a gentle firefly light, flickering in time to the crystal notes.

That's what magic is for, Barnaby told himself. To make music and light and wonders. He pictured such a harp at the mill. Ah, he'd say 'play, little harp', and hear its sweet music as he worked. And as he ate, and even slept.

"The tune pleases our Marquise," observed Pentateuch. He tilted his pirate hat at a jaunty angle, yellow teeth displaying grin. Posing so, it came easy to picture Pentateuch as living man in noisy tavern, entranced with the motions of a dancer.

Barnaby opened mouth to share this thought; caught another warning look from his cat-tutor's angel-wing eyes. Settled for nodding.

Pentateuch looked from one to the other, nodding to himself as though reaching conclusion. Then he raised his cup high.